This is to write to you
The things I cannot say
The things I tell you all day
in my head.

I imagine I can tell you
that every morning I wake
I think about being dead.
And every night it's become my habit
to comfort myself with visions of that
until sleep arrives

But that's not to mean I will die
I'm just so numb.
I cannot tell you because people say
we say this for attention
Or to bestow you with responsibility

But although I want nothing more than for you
to come and hold me and offer me the comfort
I find in your arms
to replace the comfort of these relentless thoughts.
It is not your responsibility.

But let's not talk more of this
It's so boring.

Let's talk of how your hair smells
glorious
And your skin's so sweet and warm
and your mouth covers mine in friendly kisses.

How when I speak of pain you

embrace my hand with yours.
And even your hands are beautiful.

Of the look on your face when I showed you I had
drawn your feet.

How your eyes speak things to me.
Do mine speak to you?

What have my eyes already told you?
Maybe they've told you of this pain and my
tongue will never have to repeat it
and this poem can stay secret